


You're Still My Patron Saint

by cecilkirk



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, M/M, brendon's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 02:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6636694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ryan dies suddenly, Brendon doesn't know how to react.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Still My Patron Saint

Twice a week, I pass by the church that held your funeral. It forces me to reconsider distance.

I remember where the coffin was, how it was only inches from the front pew. That was the closest we had been in years in all forms of the word.

The pastor said you were in heaven, and I didn't believe a word of it because you were  _there_ , only inches away. I could've reached out and touched you. I remember almost doing so, but someone next to me burst into tears.

It brought me out of my dream very quickly.

The pastor also said you were now walking with Jesus. I wanted to break all of his teeth.

He called you a sinner. I let the word fall on my own shoulders. I think someone saw me smirk.

The smirk fell when he said what happened. I couldn't believe it, even more so than you dwelling in the clouds. I felt the blood drain from my face. In that moment, I swore him an enemy.

He didn't care to preserve your image. I don't think everyone knew you'd overdosed, but now they did.

I was mortified for you.

Maybe you wouldn't have wanted that.

When I walk past the church, I feel nothing. My soul was left between those pews. I never prayed for you; you wouldn't have wanted that. I will cherish your image if no one else will. We weren't close anymore, but god, we were close that day. The closest we had been in years, but not the closest we'd ever been.

At least the pastor hadn't known that. At least no one knew that was why I smirked and let myself be the sinner.

You were never one for worship--you thought it was stupid and futile. I can still hear you saying that. You believed in making one's own hope. I had never been that strong.

I did not pray for you that day, but I worshiped you.

I had been for years.

 

 

 

They all blamed me. I couldn't blame them for it.

Everyone from your family avoided my eyes. Everyone that came in from the community stared me down.

People heard stories, I guess. From the way I was received, I had been your corruption. The scant responses I get help me piece together the picture I made for others. If I hadn't gotten you into music, maybe fame wouldn't have led you to drugs.

It's reasonable. I can see how they made it that far.

You wouldn't want me to correct them, so I don't. I just hold the truth in my pockets like stones.

Drag me down, baby. Don't leave me here.

Someone punched me square in the face that day. I don't know who it was. He looked at me and burst into tears. I think they all hated me. I think they couldn't comprehend the evil I had led you to.

I don't wipe away the blood; I just walk away.

 

They were all heartsick, I know. I still don't forgive them.

My car was at the far end of the block. It felt like a march. I could hear your voice ringing with the truth, reminding me that it was your fault. Not mine.

It doesn't help.

I don't think you would have wanted me to know that, but I knew it anyway. We had been far too close for our own good, and that day we'd been only inches from each other.

In my ears, in my pockets. Drag me down, baby. I don't want to be here anymore.

 

 

 

I’m sure there isn't a heaven, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to picture you there.

I bet you’re bumming cigarettes off saints.

I’m sure you’re still singing, but I’ll bet that you’re still just a bit out of key with that crooked smile pushing words across your teeth.

Drag me down, baby. Don't leave me here.

 

 

 

I'll keep you with me.

I'll save our photographs and whispered promises like stones. They're worth drowning over. You always will be.

There is a garden next to the church. Nothing grew that spring until after your funeral. The old ladies say it was coincidence, but I know better. The pastor said it was God's love. I spat in his face.

It was you. It was us. It was flickering memories in full bloom. You were too electric; you kept the life going. I remember you hated flowers, but I still think it was you.

Maybe it was a prank to play on the old ladies. Maybe it was a "fuck you" to the pastor.

You know, I didn't cry until I saw the flowers.

It was then that I realized what our distance really was: so goddam close, so impossibly far.

Drag me down, baby. I'll never be in the clouds with you.

 

 

 

You never wrote another song.

No one you ever touched did, either.

I don't know what happened to the others. They didn't come to your funeral. 

Only me. Only we were close enough.

People forgot about me soon enough. I don't know if they ever will about you.

I know I never will, anyway.

Somewhere in the world, a teenager is abandoning a garden to pursue music. It's a trap. And baby, don't you know it.

Wolves in suits had you in their teeth before you realized who you were. It didn't matter then. You didn't sell out; you sold your soul to stay alive.

Twice a week, I pass by the church that held your funeral. The garden is doing well. I can hear the pastor's voice behind the doors. I know what it's like between those pews.

Drag me down, baby. I only want to be close to you.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by ["Cigarettes & Saints" by The Wonder Years](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hbcBrsUuz4)


End file.
